Requiem eternum. (a short story)
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Requiem eternum. (a short story)
He sits before the glowing box which feeds off his brainwaves like a starving wild beast.
He is married to it, not the neglected waif scrubbing dishes in the next room, wearily hunched over the sink of soapy water and humming softly to herself to maintain sanity.
Tiny potato chip crumbs litter his graying chest hair; he is oblivious to their existence, or at least to the whereabouts of their current location.
The sweating beer bottle is nestled comfortably in the palm of his large hand, the hand he's hit her with so many times.
He stares ahead blankly, hearing what the television says to him and millions of others without really listening. That would require too much effort.
It is effort enough to lift the bottle to his lips and take a swig.
A fly exercises its tiny cellophane wings as it buzzes about the small room, small and insignificant.
Is it a man sitting there on that stained and ragged sofa, or just another fly?
Apart from appearance it is difficult to tell.
His heavy eyelids begin to droop just as the film reaches its climax and he lowers his stubbly chin to his chest.
The bag of potato chips that are glued to his other hand by hunger drop to the floor with a crinkle.
he is asleep.
I am hungry.
he is dead.
she is free.
I am satisfied.
I am gone, no more than a ghost of dust upon the balmy night air.
I am gone.
He is married to it, not the neglected waif scrubbing dishes in the next room, wearily hunched over the sink of soapy water and humming softly to herself to maintain sanity.
Tiny potato chip crumbs litter his graying chest hair; he is oblivious to their existence, or at least to the whereabouts of their current location.
The sweating beer bottle is nestled comfortably in the palm of his large hand, the hand he's hit her with so many times.
He stares ahead blankly, hearing what the television says to him and millions of others without really listening. That would require too much effort.
It is effort enough to lift the bottle to his lips and take a swig.
A fly exercises its tiny cellophane wings as it buzzes about the small room, small and insignificant.
Is it a man sitting there on that stained and ragged sofa, or just another fly?
Apart from appearance it is difficult to tell.
His heavy eyelids begin to droop just as the film reaches its climax and he lowers his stubbly chin to his chest.
The bag of potato chips that are glued to his other hand by hunger drop to the floor with a crinkle.
he is asleep.
I am hungry.
he is dead.
she is free.
I am satisfied.
I am gone, no more than a ghost of dust upon the balmy night air.
I am gone.
Last edited by Lestat on Sat Apr 07, 2018 8:22 pm; edited 3 times in total
Re: Requiem eternum. (a short story)
Lovely my dear Lestat...just lovely! Makes me wonder though...if that was just a story, or based upon truth.
Victor- Respected Member
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Join date : 2014-12-15
Location : London, England.
Re: Requiem eternum. (a short story)
To write something, with that much emotion denotes a literal or obvious meaning.
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